


The Absolutely True Story Of How I Wrote My Genius Poem, Child Harold; - or, The Same Rehearsal of the Past

by Anonymous



Category: Lord Byron - Fandom
Genre: Childe Harold, Easter Eggs, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lord Byron was sex on legs (one of which had a club foot, but let's not dwell on his shortcomings, where he gave us so many *other* comings). But how did he write the poem that made him famous and who inspired it? The answer is perhaps surprising, but let us hear the good lord tell us the story himself.Written for Glasgow Fanfic Night, May 2020, this is my first fic in nearly 20 years. It was written with much love and affection.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	The Absolutely True Story Of How I Wrote My Genius Poem, Child Harold; - or, The Same Rehearsal of the Past

_There is a moral of all human tales:_

_'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past -_

_from Child Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV, CVIII._

Hello. ‘Tis I. George Gordon Noel, the sixth Lord Byron. You may know me from my seducing my half-sister, shagging my way through London Town and the Continent, my infamous stint at Aberdeen Grammar School, and, yes, from BOOKS. I am here today to tell you the true story of how I came to write my first overnight literary success — which I published over 6 years because genius takes time — _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_. 

_Childe Harold_ is the compelling story of a dashing hero with a tortured soul, lustrous brown curls and more ruffled shirts than I’ve deflowered virgins. An epic tale of a debauched man seeking freedom and the willing arms of any gender throughout his European travels. Most people assume it is autobiographical, and quite frankly, I don’t blame them. My thighs have inspired poetry, but it was my poetry which caused every thigh in England to quiver, as I’m so fond of saying. But my breath-taking iambic pentameter would not happened without my casual foray into time travel. 

Yes, time travel. As in travelling through time. Defying the linear trudge towards certain death and casting physical laws into disarray. I discovered time travel rather by chance - as one does. It involved copious amounts of madeira, a generous helping of opium and an open fireplace which turned out to be a portal. I suppose it was lucky that I did not burn my breeches (I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense) but merely stumbled into another era. 

First time I just walked about poking little switches set into the wall and feeling startled when invisible light sources lit up. I found myself wondering just how much opium I had consumed and whether my acquaintance De Quincey had fobbed me off with a bad dosage. It would not be the first time but at least this time it did not involve a Welsh badger. After poking many switches, I awoke in my library with sweat beading on my brow and a tumescent radish in my outstretched hand (not a euphemism).

The second time I was sober and found myself in the same room as before, yet with different decor. The curious switches in the wall remained, but there were more books than on my previous visit. The books were gaudily clad in colourful paper and oddly flimsy. I picked a few up and the titles were off-putting: _The Da Vinci Code_ and _Twilight_. They seemed entirely heretical and inappropriate, so I promptly sat down to read them. They were worse than expected, pure mental masturbation, and wholly unbelievable. I admire the authors for their imagination, but a device that connects everybody with everybody else no matter their geographical location? I may just be coming to terms with time travel but I have no time for outlandish claims. I told Percy’s unfortunate wife about these books, keeping schtum about my source and she looked at me with her customary eyebrow quirk. 

But my third time travel adventure was different. No curious light sources, no outlandish books written by a feverish mind. Still the same room, but it already had a visitor. And so I met my muse, my _Childe Harold_. A tousled-haired Apollo with a head of famous dark curls; a face carved from Grecian marble; eyes as clear and bright as Lake Geneva on a sunny day; a generous mouth graced with a devil-may-care smirk; and a lithe body clad in a ruffled blouse as white as the untouched snow of the Pyrenees. 

  
Harry Styles. 

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few easter eggs in this fic, apologies. 
> 
> Percy's unfortunate wife is obviously Mary Shelley who'd go on to write Frankenstein after being holed up with Byron and several other cohorts at Lake Geneva in 1816. At that same 'summer camp' Byron's personal doctor (and probable lover) John Polidori wrote The Vampyre, said to be the first vampire story (and its protagonist modelled after Byron himself). I thought it'd be neat throw Twillight into the mix, giving Mary a chance to tell Polidori about undead creatures. 
> 
> Paperbacks are a relatively modern thing which is why I had Byron notice the flimsy and gaudy nature of the books he picked up ("gaudy" also being a very Byronic word). 
> 
> The phrase "mental masturbation" was used by Byron himself to describe John Keats' work. 
> 
> I have no idea if Harry Styles is a debauched man with a tortured soul, but I quite frankly doubt it. He does have lustrous dark curls and wears a lot of ruffled shirts. I rather think of Byron as the original rock star, so the connection was obvious. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed x


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